Bending over backwards.
Hikaru leans back, admires his handiwork a little - pale skin flushed red, eyes hungry and lips bruised. “Spread,” he says, and Yabu stifles a moan, long legs shifting wider on the mahogany table (where, coincidentally, they’d been discussing the concert two hours prior). He traces the inside of his thigh, enjoys the way the older boy trembles, breath catching, then exiting his throat in a strangled groan when Hikaru slips two slick fingers in.
“I liked it,” he says when he angles his fingers and hooks, makes Yabu cry out and scrabble at his shoulders for support. He doesn’t say anything for a while after that, content with watching Yabu’s chest rise and fall in shallow gasps, fingers digging bruises into his skin as he rubs and strokes and teases. Then he stops, listens to Yabu whine softly, waits for him to stare back with semi-coherent eyes before he continues. “The idea about the TV production. It was cool.”
Yabu smiles back weakly, subconsciously squirming against Hikaru’s fingers and struggling to get him to move again. “Thanks -” he gasps when the fingers leave him, and he hears the metallic sound of jeans being unzipped. “For agree - nngh - f-for agreeing -”
Hikaru smirks, relishing the sight of Yabu spread out before him, waiting and wanting, pretty pink flush high on his cheeks. “You know I’d always agree to what you say, Kou-chan,” he whispers, breath ghosting past Yabu’s ear, and then he drinks in the ragged moan Yabu gives him when he thrusts in.
Giving in did have its advantages.